The grandfather clock gave a deep, protesting groan as Pell’s back struck the walnut pilaster. The lead swinging weight swung wide, clipping the inside of the case with a dull thunk that sent a shiver through the gold-trimmed moldings.
For five seconds, neither man breathed.
Len kept his sounding pole planted firmly between his feet, the forged iron bracket wedged into the seam between two oak planks. His weight was balanced, his knees loose, his eyes fixed on the narrow gap beneath the green velvet settee. Nothing emerged from the shadows. The scraping didn’t repeat. The sound died away into the steady, clockwork hiss of the kerosene fire bowls and the distant hum of the Survey boilers two terraces below.
Pell straightened his plum-colored coat with trembling hands, his knuckles white as he smoothed the crushed velvet of his lapels. He tried to summon his office composure. But his face remained the color of skimmed milk, his hazel eyes wet with naked, undiluted panic.
“A settling timber,” the judge muttered, though his voice had none of its earlier certainty. “The foundations of this house were laid seventy years ago. The heat from the channels causes the floor beams to warp.”
